Chapter III

For a while all were busy with their drinks, and the farmer was hiding a grin until Éowyn noticed that their host was sitting there, watching them. Squinting an eye, she asked, something like a threat in her voice: "And what are you going to drink?"

The farmer met her gaze squarely: "My favourite: "The Witch's Smile."

Éowyn frowned. "The witches smile? That certainly is a strange name."

Smirking, the farmer shook her head. "Not at all. Drink two of it and you won't get the stupid grin off your face."

With that the farmer started to concoct a mixture of ice, vodka, peppermint liqueur and orange juice. She had just put the viciously green drink down after the first sip when Éowyn, who had finished her own drink by then, reached for it, took a large gulp and then nodded approvingly.

"Hmm... Not bad at all. Even better than the stuff you made for Loth."

"Shall I make one for you?" The farmer's eyes sparkled maliciously, as she was thinking of the effect it would certainly have if the Princess of Ithilien continued to drink at that speed, but to her utter disappointment, Imrahil's wife had exactly the same idea.

"You had better watch it, Éowyn." Gelíris' laughter chimed like a small silver bell. "You have been told about its effects and it certainly doesn't have its name for nothing."

"Nonsense." Taking another gulp, Éowyn made clear that she would not heed Gelíris' warning. "I'm of the Mark and used to more than small beer."

Hiding her glee, the farmer shrugged. "Don't you worry, Gelíris. She killed the Witchking. No way a crummy Witch's Smile would sweep her off her legs. Anybody else for another try?"

Gelíris shook her head, but Lothíriel pointed at the empty glass of Éowyn's first cocktail. "I would like something with cream. Something different if possible."

The farmer reached for the bottles. "A Blushing Maiden it is then."

"A Blushing Maiden?" Snorting with laughter, Éowyn nudged her sister-in-law, never letting go of the glass.

"You'll see," said the farmer, already busy sorting out the ingredients and filling the plastic bag with ice cubes. "First thing now I need some crushed ice."

Éowyn downed the rest of her drink and grinning like a fool, she reached for the mallet. "Let me do that. I better crush than blush."

She made short work of the cubes, while the farmer poured white rum, raspberry liqueur and cream into the shaker. Soon the frothy bright pink cocktail was ready to be poured into a wide champagne saucer.

Raising her hand, Éowyn interrupted the farmer's motion. "Wait. What about such a nice sweet crystal brim as on my drink?"

"No problem." Pouring a small amount of the liqueur into a saucer, the farmer dipped the brim of the glass into it and then into the sugar, causing the tiny crystals to turn a deep scarlet before filling the glass.

With a mocking bow, Éowyn handed it over to Lothíriel. "Her you are, my blushing maiden. Though I'll have to ask my bumbling brother about the maiden and learn what can make you blush."

Not heading Gelíris' slightly worried glance, Éowyn slammed her own empty glass on the table. "And now I would like to have something altogether unmaidenly."

The farmer smiled gleefully. "What about a Cesspool?"

Snorting through her straw, Lothíriel caused her drink to bubble, while her mother's immaculate eyebrows almost reached her hairline. "Did you really say cesspool?"

The farmer's grin deepened. "I did. And you'll perfectly understand once you see it, though the taste is different from what the name suggests."

Fetching a pint glass, the farmer started to spoon ice-cubes into it, when Éowyn interrupted. "Wait. You mean to fill that glass?"

"Didn't you say you wanted something unmaidenly? And anyway, you can share, can't you?"

Adding a hefty shot of the dark rum, the farmer opened the Amaretto. Obviously uneasy, Gelíris interrupted her movement. "What is that?"

"An almond liqueur. Have a try."

Filling a shot glass with the dark golden liqueur, the farmer shoved it across the table towards the princess of Dol Amroth, who took it and gingerly raised it to her nose before tasting it. With an approving nod, Gelíris handed the glass to her daughter for a sample, before Éowyn reached for it and downed the rest, smacking her lips afterwards. "Lovely. I certainly could get used to that."

The farmer laughed. "Why not take the bottle with you then? I can easily get a second one until next Sunday."

Grinning, the queen of Rohan took the shot glass from Éowyn and held it out for a second fill. "She would have to share with me if I knew she had a bottle of this stuff." Shoving the glass over to her sister-in-law after having taken a sip, she added: "But unfortunately nothing from your world can be taken to Middle earth, mistress Thanwen."

The farmer frowned. "How do you know that? There are thousands of stories about girls falling into Middle earth, and..."

Lothíriel laughed. "We haven't heard about any living beings coming to Gondor or Rohan yet, but should it be possible for them to do so, they would arrive stark naked for certainly no thing that belongs to your world can make it into Middle earth. I know that for sure, for Éothain tried to take one bottle of beer with him. Winfrid saw him, putting it into his saddlebag, but when they opened the bag back home the bottle was gone."

Now things were starting to make sense. The farmer nodded. "I found a bottle on the terp, the morning after they had left, and wondered how it had come there."

During their conversation, she had added some Amaretto and several spoons of finely chopped fruit and filled three quarters of the pint glass with viscid apricot juice. Éowyn eyed the drink suspiciously. "That looks quite fine to me and like nothing that the name suggests."

With a malicious grin, the farmer added a shot of dark red cherry-juice. "And now comes the plunge into the cesspool!" She stirred the contents. Immediately the rich gold-orange liquid turned a dull brown, the bits of fruit swimming in it only highlighting the dubious colour and consistency.

"Goodness, that really looks gross! You had better close your eyes when you drink it, Wyn." Lothíriel had raised a hand to he mouth, eyeing the cocktail gingerly, obviously torn between laughter and disgust.

The Shieldmaiden showed no hint of reluctance as she reached for the glass and took a hearty gulp. "Béma's foreskin! That truly is wicked. All smooth and aromatic, but I bet it makes one grow chest hair."

The farmer shrugged, busy with making another cocktail for herself. "I don't force anybody to drink what I mix, and as one of our wise men said some centuries ago: Only the dose makes the poison."

When finally everybody had a filled glass before them, she went to fetch a sheet of paper and a pencil. Putting said items before her on the kitchen table, she faced her guests. "Well, here we go. You," she pointed at the queen of the Mark, "complained about loose threads and I'm afraid you are right. Others beside you have complained, but as a matter of fact I was so fed-up with that story in the end that my one and only thought was to get it over and done with."

"Fed up with it?" Éowyn 's voice was sharp with complaint. "But all the really good stuff was happening in the last chapters." She waved her hand about, not aiming at anybody special. "You didn't give me such a wedding night and..."

"Shut it, would you?" The farmer glared at her. "Your story was T-rated, and I already put as much as I dared into it." She pointed at the by now scarlet-faced queen of the Mark. "Hers was M, at least the second story, meaning it was labelled for containing what people over here would call adult topics."

Éowyn sniffed, but before she could give any rude answer, Gelíris intervened. "Well Dear, I think we don't have to fix any rating or whatever you call it now but had rather come to an agreement on the plot of the story."

The farmer nodded mutely, and Gelíris shot her a brilliant smile. "Well, I suppose we should first try to get an overview of what needs to be fixed and perhaps then we decide how the single aspects..."

"No! Bloody effing NO!" The farmer was livid. "I am not letting anyone mess with what I'm going to write. If you are not satisfied with my story, go and write your own."

"Dear mistress Thanwen ..."

"Just stop mistressing me. I said no, and I don't like to repeat myself." Crossing her arms in front of her chest, the farmer glared at Imrahil's wife.

Her face all composed politeness, the princess of Dol Amroth tilted her head. "I'm afraid you mistook my intention. It is far from me to try any messing with the story, as you put it. It certainly is your story and therefore yours to decide how and when it should continue. But you have to admit that the way you write it concerns our lives. So how can we not have certain wishes or at least be interested in it?"

"And even if you decide in the end, should not any ruler heed their subjects and chose their counsellors from amongst them?", Lothíriel seconded her mother.

The farmer snorted angrily. "In my world we call what you do lobbying, and I simply don't like it."

"Why don't we tell you our problems and suggestions and then simply leave it to you to decide?" Éowyn clearly favoured the pragmatic approach. "As Loth told you, Éomer wants to get rid of Airik in a decent way. Well, I'm not telling you how to solve that, as I'm at a dead loss as far as letters are concerned anyway."

"Look, mistress Thanwen," Lothíriel chimed in, "I simply want to ease my husband's mind. You know there are more battles to come on the eastern and southern borders of Gondor and he is meant to lead his éohere at the side of King Elessar against Gondor's foes. Can't you understand that it would greatly reassure him to have peace at the western borders of the Mark?"

The farmer frowned. "That 's more than just getting rid of Airik."

"But it could be done?" The young queen looked at her with eager hope.

The farmer grimaced thoughtfully. "It's a matter of time. If I do it, I would want to do it properly, and that would need more than just two or three chapters."

"How many?" The hopeful eyes turned determined.

Suppressing a sigh, the farmer calculated the demand. "As a rough estimate, nine at least, I would think." She felt a quite severe headache coming on. Why in Morgoth name had she agreed to this horse trade?

"So you already have an idea what to do"?

That dratted queen of the Mark now obviously had tuned into some kind of "regal modus", her voice having the undertone of demand. The farmer squared her shoulders. No way she was letting herself be pushed by a girlie one third of her own age. Raising her eyebrows haughtily, she faced down the young queen. "I already had more than only one idea when I posted the last chapter of your story. What I didn't have was time."

"I see... " Lothíriel hesitated. "Will it be a … Mind you, I'm not asking for any details, but will it be a peaceful solution?"

The farmer shrugged. "Peaceful certainly is nice for those who have to live it, but does seldom make for a good story. Readers want tension, some action, even if most of them want a happy ending." Seeing the young woman's worried gaze, she felt somehow mollified and added: "I'm not writing violence for violence's sake. And the same goes for sex. Things must have some importance for the development of the plot to make sense in a story. But yes, I was thinking about some skirmishes, but don't you worry. Your horselord won't be involved."

"At least not at the sharp end," she constrained after a sip from her cocktail. One certainly shouldn't let oneself be nailed down on things one wasn't entirely sure about yet.

Putting her glass on the table, she leaned back with a sigh. "Well, I'll deal with that Airik woman and make sure the western borders of the Mark are safe. I promise to write as regularly and as fast as possible, but I'm not discussing any details, all right?"

Lothíriel nodded. "Certainly nobody could ask more, mistress Thanwen."

The farmer frowned suspiciously at the humble tone. She was convinced there was something fishy, especially when she caught Gelíris' nervous twitching. Facing the princess of Dol Amroth, she barked bluntly: "What is it?"

For the first time since she had arrived something like unease showed on the princess' face. "I thought, once we were here, I might perhaps draw your attention to my son Erchirion who at the moment is stranded in Rohan at your behest."

The farmer suppressed a groan. "So what? He's fine there, he'll join the King of the Mark in the fights against Gondor's enemies in the east and south..."

Shaking her head, Gelíris interrupted. "I am sure he'll do that, for I know he'll fulfil his duties to king and country." She heaved a breath. "But what besides that? A man's life should not consist of battles only. I wish you could give him a fulfilling, peaceful future. A wife, I mean, and children."

Grinning at her mother over the brim of her glass, Lothíriel took another sip of her drink. "What about the widow with three kids and at least five mares? He has been talking about that joke since the idea had come up that he should spend some time in the Riddermark to study the Eorlingas' way of fighting on horseback."

The farmer swiftly calculated how much alcohol each of them had already drunk and then reached for the orange juice to top off her own drink, before grunting an answer. "Never you worry. He'll get the widow, and three kids are fine by me. I'm even ready to give him fifty mares instead of just five, but that will have to be another story, or the first one will never get finished."

She could not fail to see the expression of relief flit over Gelíris' features. "I noway meant to rush you, mistress Thanwen. And I'm sure you will excuse a mother's anxiety."

The farmer rolled her eyes. Nothing was worse than melodramatics. Facing her guests squarely, she raised her glass. "Anything else, girls, once we are at it?"

"Winfrid."

Éowyn's interjection sounded like a gunshot. The farmer gave her a slightly worried glance. She had expected the Shieldmaiden to be able to hold her drink, but obviously the mixture of drinks and the speed with which she had knocked them back were taking their toll.

"What about Winfrid? He's put up snug at Emyn Arnen..." Becoming suspicious, she glared at Éowyn. "Are you trying to tell me you want to get rid of him?"

"Naaa." Waving her hand with the half-filled glass about in a quite precarious way, Éowyn shook her head. "He's a sweet little bugger, and we'd love to keep him. But though he'll probably stay a midget all his life he'll become a man otherwise." With a resolute movement Éowyn emptied her glass, set it on the kitchen table forcefully and glared at the farmer. "You made him that size, you give him a good lass, or I'll ..."

"Éowyn!" The simultaneous cry from two mouths caused the Shieldmaiden to stop dead. "Oh bugger! I'm ruining everything." Shaking her head in obvious befuddlement, Éowyn reached for her now empty glass. "I probably better had another drink to shut me up."

"The only thing you are going to drink is water, sister." Lothíriel's voice had a noticeable edge to it, and the responding glance her sister-in-law gave her was no way peaceful.

The farmer suppressed a groan. Wonderful! A rat-arsed Shieldmaiden and a no way completely sober Pirate Queen brawling at her kitchen table! What had she done to deserve such punishment?

"Girls." It was Gelíris' voice, low but firm, nipping the oncoming row in the bud. Blushing furiously, both young women lowered their heads, which the farmer thought to be most convenient, as it prevented them from seeing the knowing grin she and the princess of Dol Amroth exchanged.

"I suppose we had better switch to less challenging drinks, mistress Thanwen, don't you agree?" Gelíris' eyes wandered to the juice bottles and the farmer nodded. Wordlessly she filled glasses with a mixture of pineapple, banana and orange juice, thus emptying the opened bottles, and then went to put a large jug of tap water on the table.

Without looking at her, Éowyn filled her empty glass with water and downed it. With a sigh, the farmer shoved a glass of juice towards her. "Have that. The contained minerals will do more to prevent a hangover than just the water." The Shieldmaiden's head jerked up violently, but before she could say anything, the farmer forestalled her. "I'm not saying you'll have one, but I think it wise to take precautions against nasty things if possible. And as for Winfrid, I'll think about it. Just don't ask everything at once. And anyway, just romance doesn't make a good story."

The grin was back now on Éowyn's face. "Perhaps not, but there is nothing like a bit of smut to make a good story even better."

The farmer straightened her shoulders. "May I remind you how old Winfrid is? I'm no way writing explicit scenes with minors."

"But it doesn't need to be "explicit"!" Lothíriel exclaimed, "At least not if "explicit" means what I think it means."

"It means calling a shag a shag," Éowyn volunteered, and then shrugged. "Be that as it may, I still don't understand why a lad should be old enough to die but too young to have some fun. Time has passed since your last story, mind you. He's going to be sixteen in a few months, old enough to join an éored. And from what I have been told about his sheets..."

The farmer slammed her glass on the table. "I said no. Which part of the word you don't comprehend? Write it yourself, if you are so keen on it."

"Well, I suppose it would be advisable to have the boy wait a bit, my Dear." Smiling benevolently, the princess of Dol Amroth reached for a glass of juice. "When mistress Thanwen has solved the Airik affair and found the energy and the time to set Erchirion up nicely..."

"Mann in de Tünn!" The farmer groaned. "How many hours do you think my days have?"

Lothíriel glared at her mother over her drink. "Well, mother, I'm afraid your obsession with a story for Erchirion and my dear sister's behaviour have nettled our host a bit. May I remind you that it was me you feared would drop the brick?"

Who might have thought that the queen of the Mark had a tendency to become cantankerous when drunk? The farmer fought to hide her grin. Gelíris chose to ignore her daughter's complaint, and for a moment none of the women said anything, until Éowyn reached again for the water jug.

"Open mouth, insert foot." Éowyn cupped her chin in her hand. "It's useless to pretend we're not all of us eager to have our own stories continued, or those of the people we love. The problem is that one good story finished heightens the appetite for more. It's the same as with your bloody cocktails... and some other things I won't mention because you seem to have your prissy season at the moment."

The farmer snorted. "I have been accused of a lot of things in my long life, but prissiness is certainly something new." She rose to leave the table, but Gelíris reached across it and caught her hand.

"Don't take offence, mistress Thanwen. Éowyn is very dear to me, but we all know how stubborn she can be at times."

Her daughter nodded, grimacing at the Shieldmaiden. "A mule is a shining example of patience and insight compared to her. But I bet my saddle she will not write even a single sentence of any story herself."

Éowyn stuck out her tongue and then laughed. "No, I surely wouldn't. You'd be perfectly safe with that. Just a typical Gondorean coward, not taking any risky bet. Writing!" She snorted. "You and your obsessive letter writing. And I bet what you wrote to my brother was not at all "T-rated" or what you call it, for I've been told that the entire staff at Meduseld knew when that plonker had got a new letter, because he would not leave his den for hours."

The farmer looked at Gelíris, both of them shaking their heads in the mutual feeling of second-hand embarrassment. Goodness, two of the highest ranking women of the Fourth Age behaving like sloshed teenage girls!

"Could you perhaps refrain from hitting low, girls?" Gelíris' voice was back to resolute politeness. "We came here to convince mistress Thanwen to turn back to writing and not to indulge your immature squabbles."

Lothíriel sighed and was not quite successful in hiding her grin. "It's the cocktails, mother. Liquid courage."

"Blimey, Loth, just imagine how much Dúrion of Adab-en-Celon would have to drink to be able to face down his bitch of a wife!" Éowyn nudged her sister-in-law and both young women collapsed giggling on the table.

The farmer grimaced. "I just hope that doesn't give you the idea to ask me to write a story for him too."

Still giggling, the queen of the Mark shook her head. "No way would we ask you to waste your time on him. I would be thankful if you sorted out Éomer's problems, and double so if you could write a really nice story for Erchirion, for he truly deserves some happiness. But I understand you need to write those things at your own pace and without our interference, no matter what my dear sister thinks." She stuck out her tongue at her sister-in-jaw in turn, a gesture that caused her mother to raise her eyebrows and Éowyn to guffaw.

"Love you too, Loth. Well, mistress Thanwen, I'll stop pestering you with a story for Winfrid. Let's wait until he's older. But hey, you ought to give him a chaste romance at least as soon as he's sixteen. But perhaps we could get you to write something "explicit" for somebody else in the meantime?"

Her eyes shone with glee, and the farmer saw Gelíris frown at the opposite side of the table. But before the princess could call the young women to order, Lothíriel, her voice hiccuping with mischievous laughter, said: "Perhaps Amrothos?"

"That idiot deserves to be saddled with an orc." Despite her grim statement, Éowyn's face still showed a wide grin, whereas Gelíris tried in vain to hide her displeasure.

Grinning herself now, the farmer winked at the princess of Dol Amroth. "Don't you worry. I'll make him Gondor's ambassador in Umbar instead and saddle him with a spit-fire pirate-merchant's daughter from Harad."

The young women laughed, but Gelíris remained serious. "I know he can be quite a nuisance, but for all his recklessness he is a loving son and brother and deserves a happy future."

"Did I say he won't be happy?" The farmer's remarked was followed by more giggles and laughter, but before Gelíris could protest, everything was interrupted by the shrill of the alarm clock. The farmer stood, fetching a pot-cloth. "Time for the pies, girls."

Annotations:

Mann in de Tünn! (Plattdeutsch/Low German) expression of annoyance or surprise, literally : Man in the barrel!

Many thanks go to the ladies of "The Garden" and especially to Lady Bluejay who again helped me to sort out unintended language mistakes.